For the 9 to 12
year old 2018 Roolaboola ‘Dicing With Story’ session, we threw the Story Cubes and
we got an Apple, a Car, a Lock, a lightning bolt, and a Vampire.

Godzilla also featured rather
prominently in the story development process so we put him in too.

This is the story
we all came up with.

Joey the Bear and The Twenty First Apple

Joey the Bear was actually Joey Smith but he called himself Joey the Bear
because it really annoyed his mother. In fact, his mother secretly loved it but
she knew if she told Joey that she loved it he would stop using it immediately so she didn’t.

Joey the Bear was very good at most things. He was lucky like that. He
was good at school and good at sports and good at making jokes and good at being
nice. Important things like that. But Joey the Bear had one problem, he wasn’t
the best at anything. In fact, he was pretty much second best at everything.

Did you ever hear of anything quite like that? A guy who was second best
at everything he did? Well that was Joey the Bear. His friends called him ‘Mister
Second Best’ when they weren’t calling him ‘Joey the Bear’ and that made him sad
and frustrated.

It wasn’t just one person who was the very best at all of the things.
Several people were very good at things and each of them were number one in their
own field. But when it came to school stuff, there was really only one guy.
Miles Long was the best at everything in the school, homework, sport,
punctuality, popularity… you name it, Miles Long was it.

And, yes, that really was his real name. Miles Long. He was quite short too.
It was the kind of name that people would inevitably make fun of. Except they
didn’t. Miles Long was just that kind of guy. You didn’t make fun of him.

Joey the Bear longed to come first at something in school just once and
he was constantly on the lookout for some way to make this happen.

“Don’t worry about it,” his Mother used to say, “Also could you please
stop calling yourself Joey the Bear?” As we know, she meant the first part but she
didn’t really mean the second.

But Joey did worry about it. He didn’t really have any close ‘call-around-to-the-house’
type of friends so he spent quite a lot of time plotting and calculating how he could
ever manage to be first, just once. He sat on the floor in his bedroom, in
among his huge comic collection, and wondered how he could ever make his dream
come true. Sometimes, on really bad days, he would even ask the heroes in
his comics how they always managed to come first and whether they had any tips
on how he might do the same. Sometimes it felt like the comic heroes were almost
building up to giving him an answer but they never did.

Then the ‘Eat an Apple a Day’ challenge came along and it seemed to offer
the perfect solution to Joey’s troubles. Miss Brody announced that March would be
‘Healthy Eating Month’ and that everyone who ate an apple at lunchtime in
school every day would get a gold star on the chart on the wall and that the
person with the most gold stars at the end of the month would be the winner and
would receive two of Mr Brody’s most collectible comics as a surprise.

Nobody cared about wall charts or about gold stars. Those things were
from the era of first and second class and were now things to be actively
mocked and sneered at. But Mr Brody’s comics were another matter altogether. Mr
Brody was married to Miss Brody who was only a ‘Miss’ to suit the conventions
of the school. She was a ‘Mrs’ everywhere else. Mr Brody’s comics were legendary.
He literally had everything. The two comics on offer to the winner of the ‘Eat an
Apple a Day’ challenge were there on display in the classroom, right beside the
dopey wall chart and its dopey gold stars. There was a superb edition of ‘Vampire
Man’ from the early Nineties and, prize of prizes, there was a first edition ‘Beast
from Beyond’ from the late Eighties. Vampire Man was pretty self-explanatory.
He was a blood sucking beast who had vowed to fight crime after he was bitten
by a bat and his coffin was stolen by mobsters. ‘The Beast from Beyond’ was a
lot like Godzilla except his tail was shorter and he didn’t roar in Japanese.

Joey the Bear wanted those comics. He loved Vampire Man and he
positively revered The Beast from Beyond. But more than all of that he wanted
to come first. He wanted to win just once. To be honest, he didn’t really think
he could win. Miles Long was just too good, too consistent.

But, here’s the thing: Joey the Bear thought he could probably achieve a
draw.

All he had to do was eat an apple every day and, if he did that, he simply
could not lose. The worst he could possibly do would be to come joint-first and
joint-first was still first, wasn’t it? He and Miles Long would both be first
and they would share the comics and he would no longer be Mister Second Best.

And you might well wonder what of the rest of the class. Couldn’t
someone step up from their ranks and also become joint winner? Well, yes, of course
that might happen but it really wasn’t terribly likely. The rest of the class
were fine, in their way, but they didn’t really care about things like Apples or
Comics or Coming First or even Second. They cared about things like Soccer and
GAA and Girls and Non-Mainstream Rap Artists and Video Games.

It all came down to Miles Long versus Joey the Bear and the race was on.

Jump forward to the morning of 29th of March. It’s Friday and
it’s the final day of the ‘Eat an Apple a Day Challenge’. Of course there are thirty-one
days in March, we all know that, but the challenge could only be run over
school days as Miss Brody could hardly be expected to call around to students' houses to see if they had eaten their daily apple on the weekends.

On the morning of 29th of March, Joey the Bear carefully
packed his twenty first apple into his lunchbox and sealed the lid. This was
quite a job in itself because the apple tended to sit up higher than the lid so
that the lid sometimes bruised the apple and made it a little less appetising
when lunch time came. That didn’t matter though, the apple had to be eaten and
that was all there was to it.

It was a dark gloomy morning which promised a storm later. You could
feel it in the air, tingling and simmering nervously. The lunchbox was packed
in the schoolbag and the schoolbag was packed in the back of Mum’s brand-new
second-hand car, which was her absolute pride and joy, and off they drove to
school in the gradually deteriorating morning.

Everything was fine.

Except for one small thing, which was very much not fine.

In his push to get everything right, Joey the Bear had neglected to
attend to one small detail. He had forgotten to fully zip up his school bag,
which was effectively a small rucksack. And although the suspensions of his Mum’s
brand-new second-hand car were very fine indeed, they did not prevent tiny road
vibrations causing the lunchbox to slip out of the open rucksack and fall down
behind the front passenger seat of the car.

When Mum parked in the disused car park on the hill, as she always did,
Joey grabbed his bag and Mum grabbed her briefcase and off they went to school
and work respectively, never guessing that Joey’s world was about to implode.

Joey sat at his desk and waited for his adversary to arrive. He gazed
over at Mile Long’s empty desk and thought about how Miles was a cool kid
really and how it was a shame that their unspoken combative relationship seemed
to prevent them from being friends. He gazed at the desk until the roll was
called and he gazed at the desk until the maths lesson began and he gazed at
the desk until…

…until he suddenly realised with an electric shock to his system.

MILES LONG IS NOT IN.

But what wizardry was this? Miles Long was always in. He had a perfect
attendance record where Joey only had a second-perfect one. Joey shot his hand
in the air, interrupting some trigonometry.

“Miss.”

“Yes, Joey, what is it?”

“Miss… where’s Miles?”

“Miles is off sick today. His mother phoned in.” Miles’ Mother was
friendly with Miss Brody and they talked often on the phone. Miss Brody looked
at Joey and then suddenly realised the implication of this news, “Gosh, Joey, you
might win.”

There was no ‘might’ about it. The rest of the class had fallen away in
their usual show of apathy and world-weariness. There was only Miles and Joey
and guess what?

MILES LONG WAS NOT IN.

Miss Body smiled benevolently at Joey and then continued with her explanation
of what a triangle was. But Joey could not just sit and think about acute angles
and obtuse angles. He shot his hand up into the sky again.

“Miss.”

“Yes, Joey.” The smile was perhaps not quite so benevolent this time.

“Miss. Please… could I eat my apple now?”

Miss Brogan’s mouth gathered itself into a strongly worded retort. But
then she saw the little boy in front of her. The expectation on his face. The
need to come first just once. Her nicer smile crept back.

“Eat it quietly, Joey, and keep paying attention and then, at break, you
can collect your prize.”

“Thank you, Miss.”

Outside the storm was gathering itself to strike. You could feel it coming.

Joey lifted his rucksack up onto his desk. He noticed that the zipper on
the lunchbox compartment was hanging open.

Outside the dark clouds flickered with lightning. A distant rumble of
thunder.

Joey plunged his hand deep inside of the lunchbox compartment of his
rucksack.

And, right then, the storm hit, in all its rage and power.

Joey the Bear’s Mum always liked parking in the deserted car park on the
hill because it was like her little secret. It was close to the school and a
good healthy walk to her work and nobody ever went there ever, which was
admittedly a little strange.

By the time Joey the Bear ran back to the car he was soaked through and
he was shivering uncontrollably. The storm was at its zenith as it roared and
boiled around him. Of course the car was locked up tight. Mum always secured
her most prized possession. Joey pulled and pulled on the door handles but
there was no way in.

Looking around in a blind panic his eyes fell on an old wire coat hanger
on the ground. He bent and picked it up. He had seen it on the telly once, a guy had opened a locked car
with a coat hanger. He had eased the wire through a gap in the door window. But
there was no gap in the door window. Mum would not leave any gaps in the windows
of her most prized possession. Through the rear window, Joey could see his lunchbox
peer out from behind the front passenger seat.

Joey’s rage and frustration spilled over to match the rage of the storm.
He raised his arm to the skies and shouted his defiance to the fates that had
driven him to this place. He actually saw, in his mind’s eye, the comics being
blown away from his grasp.

The arm he raised held the coat hanger aloft. High into the sky it
pointed, as the storm raged about him, on the highest point of the deserted car
park on the hill, which was the highest point in the entire town.

“Vampire Man,” he cried, “Where are you now?”

The lightning was always going to strike.

To Joey the Bear, it felt as if he had been pushed hard by the world. He never
saw the blue bolt shooting from the heavens and striking the tip of the wire
coat hanger. He never felt himself drop senseless to the muddy earth.

All he knew was the darkness.

When he opened his eyes it was still dark. He was sheltered from the
storm but he could still hear it rage outside.

Outside? Outside of what?

He reached out in the darkness. The ‘thing’ that enveloped him was silky
and smooth beyond belief. Panicked, he thrashed against it, struggling to escape
its embrace.

“Be easy my child.” The voice was silky like the cape. It was strong and
sounded faintly Eastern European, like some of the better-looking girls in his class,
“You have been burned by the sky and you are weak.”

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“You are where you were. I am who I was.”

Joey the Bear found a gap in the silky envelope and he crawled weakly
out. He struggled to his feet, he was wobbly and sick and the palm of his hand
burned. He turned to meet his saviour.

The man who stood before him was seven feet tall at least. He wore a
huge black cape and his long hair was pushed back to reveal a prominent widow’s
peak. His teeth were not teeth at all. They were fangs.

“Vampire Man?”

“I prefer Marius, for that is my name.”

“Marius Cazacu, bitten by a Vampire Bat in deepest Congo?”

The vampire bowed deeply.

“At your service.”

“But how…?”

“You have called to me many times before but the barriers between legend
and reality are heavily policed. This storm allowed me to ‘slip through’.”

Joey looked down at his aching hand. It was red and raw and it hurt as much
as anything ever could.

“Can you help me?”

“You need to obtain the fruit that is inside the carriage.”

“Yes.”

“Alas, I cannot help.”

“But…”

“I have tried, while you slept beneath my cape. I assumed the shape of a
bat and flew through the engine but there is no way inside. Besides, I found I would
have had to be invited in for this carriage is revered like a house.”

“Then I'm finished.”

“All is not lost. There is a comrade nearby who can surely help us but she
will not come unless you call her again.”

“Who is she?”

The vampire smiled his dangerous smile. “Joey the Bear… you know who she
is.

Joey did not think twice, he closed his eyes and wished for the Beast from
Beyond.

There is an old saying that goes, “be careful what you wish for.” When
Joey opened his eyes it was to see a vast taloned foot embedded in the car park
mud in front of him. The claws were already sunk deep into the ground. Joey
looked to his right and saw the other foot and leg at the far end of the car
park. When he dared to look skyward, the green and yellow scaled form vanished
into the low-lying clouds above long before arms or head could even be seen.
The thing filled the earth and sky and all around.

Joey had almost forgotten about Vampire Man but now he spoke.

“Kaiju or the Beast
from Beyond, as you know her, will open up this box with a single tear of her
claw and your goal will be returned to you. I need only say the word and it shall
be done.”

Above him, Joey could hear the rough breathing of the Beast as it awaited
the command.

Joey looked at Vampire Man, whose teeth
were fearsome but whose eyes were strangely kind. Then he looked at his Mum’s beloved car, which she had struggled so long and worked so hard to finally get.

“No,” he said.

Vampire Man muttered a single phrase. It sounded to Joey like ‘Creatură fi
Plecat’. The gargantuan foot suddenly hauled itself from the mud and withdrew.
There was a distant crash as it put itself down again in the next parish. Kaiju was gone.

“Will she damage the town?” Joey asked.

“She steps with care.”

Joey looked around. The car was fine. His apple was still inside. The
footprint in the mud was already filling in with water.

“What now?” he asked.

“Now,” the vampire said, as he passed his thin hand over Joey’s face, “I
exhort you to sleep.”

When Joey woke up, he was on the ground beside his mother’s car. He was
wet through and alone but the storm had passed. There was no sign of a mark on
the ground. He made his weary way back to the school.

As he arrived at his classroom door, he felt quite good despite his aching
hand. He had defended his Mum’s car, he had met his heroes in person, and he would still get to be joint first with Miles Long.

Things could have been so much worse.

Except they were.

Joey opened the door to his classroom to find only two people in there.
It was lunchtime, after all. Miss Brogan was sitting behind her desk and there,
down the classroom and sitting at his desk was the only other person in the room.

Miles Long.

In front of him, on his desk, sat a large red apple.

Joey could have passed out then and there. His disappointment was beyond
description. He would not be joint first after all. He would be Mister Second
Best, just like he always was.

But, just as his misery was about to overwhelm him, a memory came. A
memory of a pale hand passing across his forehead, it’s touch as cool as a
gravestone. The words spoken, “Sleep” but also something else, a final
benediction just as he faded away, “Be Generous.”

Be Generous.

Joey the Bear walked to Miles’ desk and he extended his burned hand.

“You won,” he said, “fair and square. Congratulations.”

Miles Long looked as if he might cry.

“Miss Brody called my Mum, they’re friends you know. When I heard what
happened to your apple, I had to come in even though I felt like crap.”

Mile took up the apple on his desk and handed it to Joey.

“I don’t understand.”

“Take a bite, Joey. You’ve earned it.”

The apple was sweet and crunchy and good.

Miss Brody appeared at Joey’s shoulder and laid the comics on the desk
in front of him.

“Congratulations, Joey, you won.”

Some of the other students had come back in from break and they actually
cheered when they saw that Joey had prevailed. It wasn’t a sneery cheer either.
It wasn’t one that would be taken back later. It was for real.

Joey grinned at Miles.

“You could call around at the weekend and help me read these if you
like.”

Miles grinned back.

“I’m feeling a bit sick but, yes, I’d actually like that a lot.”

“Great.”

“Now finish your apple.”

Joey bit down hard into the fruit. A trickle of sweet warm juice ran
down his chin and onto his collar.

Two weeks ago, I ran two story workshops for young people for the Linenhall Arts Centre 'Roolaboola' Children's Festival.

We used Rory's Story Dice to demonstrate the elements of a story and then we took one final throw of the dice and made up a story based on whatever the dice gave us. The dice gave us a Foot and an Eye and a Cockroach and a Book and a House. As ever, I am amazed at the ingenuity and invention of our young folk.

This is the story
we all came up with. Full credit to my co-writers will follow shortly, both here and on The Linenhall Website.

Fut
and Cucaracha

Once upon a time…

No, wait, I don’t want to say ‘Once Upon a Time’ because then people
will think this is a fairy story when, in fact, it is a story of gained mutual
respect and co-operation.

So, what shall I say?

Let’s try ‘Last Year’.

Last year…

But no. If I start the story with ‘Last Year’, and somebody finds it
and reads it in fifty years’ time, will they be confused? Will they wonder if ‘Last
Year’ means ‘Last Year’ or if it means ‘Last Year, Fifty Years Ago’?

I can see why people use ‘Once Upon a Time’.

Okay…

Once upon a time, in a decidedly un-enchanted forest just outside of
Cong, in County Mayo, there lived a Fut. If you stand on the topmost roof of
Ashford Castle and strain a bit, you can still see the Fut’s house. It is surrounded
by trees and the trees are surrounded by fields. So next time you’re up on the
roof of Ashford Castle, look north and scrunch up your eyes really tight and
you’ll see the Fut’s House.

“Wait,” I hear you cry, which is odd because my computer speakers are
turned right down, “we don’t care where the Fut lives or how to see his
house. What on earth is a Fut?

Good question.

A Fut is a creature which is mostly comprised of one eye and one foot.
Yes, it has a brown squidgy mass around its tummy to hold these two organs
together but that is often disregarded. If you met a Fut on the High Street
(unlikely) it would be the large green eye and the huge scaly foot that you
would remark on first. The brown hairy bit in the middle would go largely unremarked-upon.

I hear your next question. I must get these speakers looked at. “How does the
Fut eat?” “How does the Fut get around?’ “How does the Fut this? How does the
Fut that?”

Yes, yes, only this is not a Fut biology lesson, it is the story of The Fut
and the Cucaracha. We could jump down a rabbit hole of Fut physiology and,
interesting and all as it might be, it would not get us to the story, the crux
of the matter.

Let it suffice, then, to say that the Fut hops about the place and eats by shoving
things up the gap between its upper eyeball and its upper eyelid. We will not
discuss the function of the lower eyelid at this juncture because I’ve just had
a sausage sandwich and frankly I’m not up to it.

So, yes, the Fut lived in the house which was surrounded by trees which
was in turn surrounded by fields and it was very very happy. It watched Netflix
with the sound turned down and did a sort of hopping Pilates to keep itself in
trim. Life was good in that spectacularly un-enchanted wood near Ashford Castle
in Cong.

Until the Cucaracha came along.

Everything changed when the Cucaracha came along and not for the better
either.

The Cucaracha came out of the un-enchanted forest one fine morning and
she liked the look of the Fut’s house and she decided, there and then, that she
would stay. She was really just an ordinary common cockroach like the one you
might find under the sink… or is that just me?

That’s just me, isn’t it?

Let’s move quickly along.

This ordinary cockroach had heard something somewhere. Probably up at Ashford
Castle but you didn’t hear me say that. She had heard that the Spanish word for
Cockroach was Cucaracha and she liked that. She has also heard a tune about a Cucaracha
and it was very rhythmic and catchy so she decided to make it her theme tune. It’s
the kind of a tune you might hear on ‘Strictly come Dancing’ on the nights when
they all wear multi-coloured pom-poms up their arms. The rhythm to the tune goes
dah-dah-daah-dah DAH, dah-dah-daah-dah- DAH.

“Why is he telling us all of this?” I hear you cry. The answer is simple.
This is the crux of the matter. The Cucaracha and her dance/walk is the reason
we are all here, telling and listening and reading.

Allow me to explain.

Please, allow me.

Every morning, at 5.30am, the little Cucaracha took its morning run. Okay,
not quite a run, more of a scuttle. And she did it on the concrete footpath that
ran right around the Fut’s house.

Every morning, hail, rain or snow, the Fut was rudely awakened by the
Cucaracha scuttling around his house to the Strictly Pom-Pom rhythm of dah-dah-daah-dah
DAH, dah-dah-daah-dah DAH.

It drove him completely loopy.

Every morning, the Fut ran out and tried to stamp on the Cucaracha with its one big foot but
the little bug was too brittle and the foot too soft and scaly to exact any damage
at all.

And so the Fut’s nightmare continued every day. Interrupted sleep, endless
rhythmic scuttling. We have to feel sorry for the poor Fut, I think.

But the Fut was a vengeful beastie in his own way. He ordered a book on Amazon
Prime which was called ‘How to Kill a Cucaracha if You are Only a Foot’. To be
honest, it seemed right up his street. The book came and the Fut started to
read it.

‘Wait’, I hear you cry, ‘Stop, Cease, Desist’. The Fut is only an Eye
and a Foot with a hairy bit in the middle. How can he find a book and order it
and take delivery of it? How can he do all these things?

All right, all right, I’ll take a moment and explain.

Not many people know that Amazon Prime has a Morse Code service where you can order things via the
medium of Morse Code. The Fut blinked his order in Morse code into his computer
with his one massive eye and the book arrived by next day delivery. Amazon
Prime also have a ‘First Page’ offer where they not only deliver the book but they
also unpack it for you and leave it open to the first page. It’s a service for
extremely lazy people and it costs a packet but it also happened to suit the
Fut very well. He got the book and there it lay on his carpet, open to page
one.

He started to read, with his one good eye.

Page One said the following:

HERE IS HOW TO KILL A COCKROACH IF YOU ARE ONLY A FUT.

Then it said the following:

PLEASE TURN OVER TO PAGE TWO.

That’s all it said.

The Fut tried to turn the page over but he couldn’t. The Fut’s foot was
not agile enough for the task and his eye was worse than useless. The information
he needed to kill the dratted Cucaracha was probably on the very next page but
it might as well have been a million miles away on the planet Foozebod.

The Fut took his one good eye and he wept. He wept from frustration and
from sadness and from a profound lack of early morning sleep.

As he wept, his front door opened a tiny bit and the Cucaracha scuttled in with her
little dah-dah-daah-dah DAH rhythm. She had heard the Fut crying and had become
concerned. The Fut had his back to her and she wondered what to do because she
knew that The Fut really just wanted to squish her.

As she wondered, she spied the book on the floor and she read the first
page with interest. Here was useful information for her. If she knew how a Fut
might kill a Cucaracha like herself then she could possibly devise a defence
against it.

She stuck her little cockroach-horns behind page one and she flipped over
to page two.

The Fut heard the page turn and turned himself. Here was the dratted
Cucaracha, sitting on the page of the book reading. The Fut blinked. All he had
to do was kick the heavy book shut with his Fut foot and that would be the end
of the dratted Cucaracha. His turmoil would finally be over.

He hopped to the side of the book and prepared to deliver the final blow.

But wait…

The page had turned… to PAGE TWO.

How had that happened? The Fut paused. He so wanted to squish the
Cucaracha but… but... PAGE TWO looked so interesting and inviting.

He started to read instead.

Side by side, the Fut and the Cucaracha sat and read PAGE TWO. The Fut
had never seen the second page of a book before. It was really quite
interesting. When they were finished, the Cucaracha did her little horn trick and
flipped the page to PAGE THREE and on they read. And on and on until the failing
light meant that even The Fut’s large eye could not continue.

Then they both laid down and slept. They slept so long that Cucaracha turned its early morning
scuttle into a mid-morning scuttle and that allowed the Fut to catch up on some
much needed shut-eye

‘See what I did there? ‘Shut Eye’? Oh, never mind.

And that is how they became friends. All through the evenings, they read together until the light dimmed.
They read all the books that The Fut ordered on Amazon Prime by Morse Code and
which the Cucaracha never could. The Cucaracha earned her keep by turning the
pages, which the Fut never could.

They read all the Harry Potters and all the Twilights and then moved on
to some classics like Pride and Prejudice and Moby Dick.

They read and they slept and they were company for each other and a help
to each other throughout the rest of their days.

And they all lived…

No, wait, I don’t want to say ‘They all lived happily ever after’ because
then people will think this is a fairy story when, in fact, it is a story of gained
mutual respect and co-operation.

Normally, I greet Sunday morning with a blog post clenched in my hand. It might need
a bit of tidying but it’s pretty much there. I grab a mug of tea and I set to
work making it passable.

It’s Sunday morning now (checks computer clock), it's 09.55, and I’ve got nothing,
zilch, nada. Not a word, not a thought, beyond the (checks computer word count)
65 or so words I have written thus far.

I had a thing written but it’s not good enough to post. There has to be
some quality control, even if it sometimes doesn’t seem that way. There has to
be some line drawn in the sand that says, ‘this far on poor quality and no further’.
I drew the line this morning with my toe on the carpet. I argued with myself, “but
only a handful of people read it anyway. Who would know? Who would care.” That’s
easy to answer. I would know. I would care. The day I stop will be the day I
stop, if you catch my drift.

So then I concluded I would write nothing today. I actually deserve a
day off. I finished a first draft of a play yesterday and it was a bit of a push
to get it over that ‘shit line’ I described loosely in the paragraph above. It’s
left me a little drained, writing wise. I tend to forget that writing is work.
It takes energy to do, it burns fuel. I love doing it so much that I tend to
completely discount this but whenever I do a good chunk of it I can end up feeling
fairly weary. So, yeah, I can take a day off. Nobody’s hanging to see my latest
post and I got nothing anyway. So why not brew up some good coffee and read my
book and have a long walk and do Tesco and generally have a nice Sunday?

Why not?

Why sit here and type something that has no beginning no middle and
absolutely no sign of an end? (I still have no idea where I’m going, in case
you’re wondering).

There are a couple of reasons, none of them very sensible.

Here’s one. I will feel bad if I don’t write a blog post today. It’s
part of my regime and, if I don’t do it when I’m supposed to do it, I will feel
like I failed a tiny bit and let myself down a tiny bit and have taken a step towards
not being a writer a tiny bit and all those tiny bits can add up and become
quite a big bit, if you’re not careful, and sometimes when you’re just writing
crap the sentences become quite long and you don’t know where to stop them.
There. Stop there.

So, yeah (I type that a lot, don’t I?) another reason that I’m still typing is this. I really like the
cumulative result of my 10+ years of weekend scribbling on the blog. I think I’ve
said it before but it’s like a mosaic. Each individual tile may be pretty average
and even quite mundane but the overall effect gives an odd ‘magic eye’ effect
if you stare at it for a while. It’s an image of a life, and it’s my life. I
like that I’ve used my words to create an impression of my life. Does that
sound pretentious? (Reads back) Is that how you spell ‘pretentious’ (checks). It’s
not meant to be pretentious. Who would I be trying to impress? There’s nobody
here but me and a few good mates who give me a bit of support. This is my life
here. There’s very little guile in it any more.

Another reason? Okay. I hate to let things go. I won’t replace my shoes
until the old ones literally fall off my feet. I cling to my old jacket. To let
something go is to lose it. I don’t want to let this thing go. The honest
impression I get is that it’s well past its sell-by date. Like the old house in
the song ‘This Old House’ this place once rang with laughter, this place heard
many a shout. The blog is hanging in tatters on my feet but I don’t want to let
it go. So here I am typing random words into the void.

Wouldn’t it be better to type nothing at all? Too many shit tiles and
the mosaic will be completely devalued.

True… true…

But is something intrinsically without value just because it presents as free form and
unplanned? (Are they both the same thing? Checks (Doesn’t check)). Does the
true insight into someone not lie in these free writing exercises? Are they not
the Rorschach of the written word? That’s probably giving too much weight and
importance to what is really nothing
more than a desperate attempt to generate content on a Sunday morning as my tea slowly cools in the mug.

(As an aside, I’ve got a random playlist going on my Spotify as I type
and I just had a thought that a bit of Bob Dylan might be nice and then he came
up, next song, an outside track from ‘New Morning’. That’s weird, right? But
not too weird, not enough to get a whole blog post off so carry on.)

I’m blank again now. What was I saying? More to the point, haven’t I said
all this at least one time before, back there in the blog post archive? I bet I
did. I bet I said it better than this or, worse still, maybe I said it exactly
the same. Wouldn’t that be awful, to be a stuck record, playing the same phrase
over and over again and demanding that people listen. I’d need a nudge, to get
me out of that groove, to play the next part of the track…

(An advert just played. Damn. I should have kept my Spotify subscription.)

I just had a look on Spotify. If you type ‘Soundtrack’ in, a lot of
links come up to ‘A Star is Born’. I guess somebody is paying somebody
something for that. It reminds me that I couldn’t sleep at 3.00 am this morning so I got up
and ‘A Star is Born’ was on the telly. The one with Kris and Barbra’. I watched
it for a while with the sound too low to hear clearly. Nothing really
seemed to happen so I went back to bed. I don’t mind the odd late night sit up.
I don’t let it stress me, though it’s easier to do it on weekends because you know
you can sleep in the next day although you never ever do.

So that’s me. I have nothing to say to you today so I just typed
randomly for a while and now I’m going to stick it up on the blog. It’s most
likely just a load of shite but it’s true and it’s straight from the horse’s
mouth so - who the hell knows? - maybe the innermost working of my mind is right there,
between the random Dylan track and the sleeplessness.

I can’t say. I’m a bit tired and I’m stuck for a necessary second beat
to complete this sentence pleasingly.

'Me' Stuff

55 Years Old.
Loves to write.
Has had writing produced for radio, theatre, and film... some short stories published (and broadcast) and a laundry list which was highly commended by 'Whiter than White' in Castle Street.
'My Writing Resume'